


Secrets

by tunglo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/pseuds/tunglo
Summary: Bruce reminds Alfred that he isn't his father.





	Secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



“You’re not my father!”

The first time Bruce said it, it was accusing. Angry frustration that his parents were dead and, in his place, there was nothing left but a man who was in over his head.

He wasn’t cut out for this - for children, family. He had seen things that he could never unsee. Done things that could never be forgiven. Bruce deserved so much better.

Bruce just sobbed when the anger had run its course, helpless gut wrenching sobs that hurt at least as much to witness as they did to live through. Alfred couldn’t walk away from it. Couldn’t give the boy the privacy Alfred thought he might want in the same position, instead pulling Bruce into his arms and petting at his hair as though he were a good man.

As though his comfort could make a difference.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered when he was cried out, already old beyond his years, and Alfred tucked him into his bed. Kissed his forehead, carefully, like he remembered his own mother doing, and retired to Thomas’ private study to empty a decanter of expensive whiskey and argue with a photograph of his former employer.

Demanded to know why he had been so bloody stupid. Stupid enough to get himself killed. Stupid enough to leave a man like him in charge of his only son.

In the morning he acted as though it was any other day. Cooked Bruce’s breakfast, and made Bruce’s bed, and didn’t comment on the puffy redness of Bruce’s eyes - just as Bruce didn’t comment on the dark smudges under his own.

If this was to work, they both needed to cling to their half secrets.

* * *

The second time Bruce was ill, his brow slick with sweat as he burrowed into his blankets and turned the statement into a question. His first thought was panic, that Bruce was hallucinating and delirious, but when he told Bruce in the calmest voice he could that he would fetch the doctor, the boy clamped a hand around his wrist.

Looked at him with his huge dark eyes, glassy with fever, and begged him not to go.

“I’m not leaving you, Master Bruce,” he said, throat aching with the intensity of the moment, “I wouldn’t.”

He hadn’t asked for this responsibility - had never imagined it being something he would fight to hold onto. But they had been through so much together. Were bound so tightly that Alfred could no longer imagine a life without Bruce at the center of it.

As if to prove himself he reached out a tentative hand. Brushed Bruce’s damp bangs back from his forehead, gently, and in return Bruce gave him an approximation of a smile.

Alfred understood, then, what it was Bruce had really been asking for.

He wasn’t the boy’s father and he never would be.

That didn’t mean they weren’t family.

* * *

“You’re not my father.”

The third time it was Bruce attempting to reassure him, the words only making the heat in Alfred’s cheeks burn brighter. The shame settle like lead in his gut because Bruce was too young to understand what he was saying.

What he was forgiving.

The mornings he woke frantic and panting, half remembered images of flushed skin and tousled hair battling with his own pledge not to give in to temptation.

The nights when he failed, treacherous hand wandering in his lonely bed.

Because Bruce was too young, too trusting. Even now, even after everything, Bruce trusted him where he shouldn’t. Treated him like he was the kind of man who deserved Bruce’s respect, in place of his disgust.

“That doesn’t make it right,” was what he managed, finally.

Silence stretched out between them, suffocating in its intensity, and Alfred wished they could go back to pretending. To turning the other cheek and not commenting on what they saw, no matter how obvious.

“Secrets are for other people. We shouldn’t have any - not between ourselves. That’s what I think, Alfred.”

There was nothing he could say to that pronouncement. Nothing at all.

 

* * *

“I’m not your son,” was what Bruce said finally, on the night of his 21st birthday party, “and you’re not my father.”

Bruce was taller than him now, with the determination of a beautiful young man. In his eyes, however, Alfred could still see the echo of the frightened child. The boy who feared being left all alone in the world. The teenager who didn’t know how to make sense of the things he should never have had to witness.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Bruce went on, quiet but confident, “and it doesn’t matter how many times I tell you that it’s not wrong. I can’t make you believe it.”

Downstairs the guests were gathering. The hangers on and the media, all desperate for a glimpse of Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. Here, ensconced in Bruce’s childhood bedroom, Alfred couldn’t look away from the stubborn tilt of Bruce’s jaw. The strands of hair curling defiantly over his left ear, making his fingers itch with the urge to reach out and smooth them into submission.

Bruce took a step closer, so close that his heart pounded and his mouth went dry. So close that he could smell the crisp scent of the cologne he himself had picked out for him, sniffing deeply and imagining how well it would compliment the calm control Bruce always strove for.

“I can’t make you do anything,” Bruce said and then, as if in answer to the obvious argument, “I won’t. It has to be your decision. But I’ve waited this long. I can wait as long as it takes, Alfred.”

There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. He had faced down assassins and been less terrified.

“I'm not going anywhere.” It was the best he could do. As honest as he could stand to be. “I'm always going to be here for you.”

There was a moment, a single moment, when it was all visible on Bruce's face. The hurt and the pain and the resignation. Then it was gone, the false face he showed the world in its place. It was more of a mask than the cowl could ever be. Hid so much of the boy - the man - in front of him that Alfred couldn't bear it. Couldn't be the cause of it, not for a second, and then his fingers were touching Bruce's cheek, seeking permission, begging forgiveness, before he pressed their lips together. 

Bruce clutched at him, desperate like he was afraid he might disappear, and Alfred understood. Clung tight to Bruce in return, lost in the heat of his mouth and the earnestness of his enthusiasm.  

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered when they pulled apart, as though what he had done was something commendable. As though it was the best gift he had ever been given.  

“I still want you to find somebody else. I still want you to live a normal life.” 

Bruce nodded, solemn. Kissed him again, chaste, before straightening out his jacket and going to do what was expected of him. 

He had already won and they both knew it.


End file.
